


Dots and Dashes

by allisonfunn



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Brotp, Feels, Fluff, Language, M/M, Morse Code
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 05:52:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6599272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allisonfunn/pseuds/allisonfunn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you know Morse code?” Steve asked abruptly.</p><p>Bucky scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I'm in the United States Army.”</p><p>------</p><p>Or, morse code comes in handy when you can't talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dots and Dashes

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for someone for Christmas and kept forgetting to post it. I sat on this prompt for ages.

**Past**

Honestly, the Commandos just didn't understand why Bucky couldn't “keep his goddamn mouth shut,” as Dungan so kindly growled at Morita one night. They didn't get that Bucky needed to talk to Steve.  _ Needed _ to. Like his life blood fuckin’ depended on it. Didn't matter what they were talking about, just that Bucky was saying something to Steve.

“He read me stories when I was sick,” Steve told Dungan, Falsworth, and Jones one night, shouting over the din in a very noisy pub. “Because I couldn't see very well, an’ he didn't want me to strain my eyes.”

“Still can't believe how puny you apparently were,” Falsworth responded, dragging his eyes down Steve’s body. Steve flushed a pretty pink -- barely noticeable in the weak, kerosene light -- and Bucky backhanded the Commando on his chest, a solid thwap. Falsworth yelped and rubbed his chest, glaring at him.

“Hey,” Bucky said, joking but tone laced with seriousness. “That's  _ Captain America  _ you're talking to. Pay him some go’damn respect.”

Steve rolled his eyes and picked up his beer, talking a large gulp. “You're a real mother hen, Buck.”

“Buck!” Dungan shouted drunkenly, hitting Falsworth on the shoulder several times -- who yelped again, rubbing his shoulder and glaring at Dungan this time. “Like the sound a chicken makes, Monty!” 

Falsworth rolled his eyes and shrugged at Steve and Bucky. “Sorry ‘bout him. Can't hold his fuckin’ liquor.” He turned to look at Dungan. “Let's get you to bed, Dum Dum.”

Dungan stood on unsteady legs and leaned heavily on Falsworth, who stumbled under his weight. Jones watched them leave and sniffed, looking down at his beer and swishing the dregs around. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I'm gonna hit the hay, too.” His chair screeched in protest as he scooted back, and without further ado he left -- not even pushing his chair back in -- leaving only Steve and Bucky at the table. Bucky stared at the door the man exited through before turning his attention to Steve.

“Hey, did I tell you ‘bout the time in basic when--” And Bucky was off like a shot, telling Steve another story. Steve smiled and listened intently.

 

Even during combat, when they were lying in wait for an enemy, Bucky told Steve stories. The first few times, Bucky tried mouthing the words at Steve. But, unfortunately, Steve got so wrapped up in concentrating on Bucky that they missed several targets...and got severely reprimanded by Phillips. (“This is not lunch time at an elementary school! I expected more from the both of you!”)

The one time Bucky tried to  _ not _ talk to Steve while in the field he shifted and fidgeted every couple minutes. Steve cast worried glances at his friend but didn't say anything. Bucky huffed and let his head fall back against the tree he was leaning against with a dull thump. Steve winced. 

They got their man, but Bucky was in a sour mood for the good part of the next two days.

“Why does it bug you so bad?” Steve finally asked during the evening of the second day. “Not being able to talk to me?” They were in the mess tent and Bucky put his fork down gently, adjusting it so it laid parallel to the tray.

“Well,” Bucky said, not looking up and still fidgeting with his fork. He furrowed his brow and tried straightening his tray instead. “That's sure a good question.” 

“What are you scared of?” Steve asked softly, quiet enough no one but the two of them heard. 

Bucky stilled his hands but tapped his fingers on the table. “I don't know…” He admitted, looking up with with a lost and confused expression on his face.

Steve pressed his lips together and looked between Bucky’s face and hands. “Do you know Morse code?” He asked abruptly.

Bucky scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I'm in the United States Army.”

“Then I have an idea,” Steve grinned, taking Bucky’s palm. 

“What are you--” Bucky started to ask. But, Steve began tapping on Bucky’s palm. “Oh.” And Bucky’s face lit up like a sunrise over London after an air raid.

The next time they were in the field together, Steve laid his arm palm-side-up beside himself and let Bucky tap dots and dashes into his skin. In the middle of a story about friendship and kindness, Steve snuck a smile at Bucky and received one in kind.

 

**Present**

Bucky had been back for about a week and still hadn't said more than two words. Or rather,  _ James _ had been back for about a week and still hadn't said more than two words. His arrival went like this:

Steve opened the door of his apartment after hearing a timid knock. He assumed it would be girl scouts selling cookies. (With little to no ability to tell small, adorable girls, “No, I don't want any cookies,” he became a favorite with the local troop. Unfortunately, that meant half his freezer was filled with a ridiculous amount of thin mints.)

Instead of the pigtailed child he'd been expecting, he was suddenly face to face with a ghost.

“Bucky?” Steve asked in a harsh whisper, voice unexpectedly catching on a sob that wanted to claw it's way out.

“No,” the ghost said. “James.” And he walked in -- technically uninvited, but always welcome -- leaving Steve staring stupidly out his door into an empty hallway.

When Steve finally unglued himself from the spot, he turned around to see James sprawled across his couch, passed out. He watched James’ chest rising and falling steadily before dialing Sam.

The second day, Steve managed to convince James to eat some broth and drink some electrolyte water, gently coaxing him into the seat across from him. This began a daily routine.

“You ready to talk today, James?” Steve asked -- the fifth time in as many days.

(“Don't push him,” Sam had said. “Sure, offer your help, but let him come to himself at his own pace.” Steve had rubbed his sore eyes with the heels of his hands and nodded jerkily.)

James rested his spoon on the edge of his bowl. He sighed deeply -- the kind of sigh an old dog might huff, laced with bone deep exhaustion. Absently, he began tapping his spoon on the bowl.

Steve pressed his lips together in concern -- not wanting to annoy his best friend -- and picked up his glass of milk, taking a deep drink.

_ Can I have a glass, please? _

Steve swallowed too much milk at once and it went down his throat like a large rock, painful. His eyes watered and he stared at James, setting his glass down silently. James’ hair covered his face and Steve couldn't see his eyes at all. Had he imagined the spoon tapping was actua--

_ I'm sorry,  _ it started up again. _ I don't nee-- _

“No, no.” Steve shot up and almost upended his chair. “Let me get you some.” As he poured the glass of milk, Steve noticed he was trembling, sloshing the milk almost over the rim in nervous excitement.

“Here you go,” he said, setting the glass near James. “Would you like anything else?”

James set the spoon down with a gentle clink and reached for the glass, draining it quickly, adam's apple bobbing as he drank like a dying man. He wiped his mouth and set the glass down, glancing at Steve sheepishly.

“Do you need anything else?” Steve offered. James shook his head, hair curtaining most his face.

“You, uh…” Steve cleared his throat. “You remember Morse code, James?”

James tentatively reached his flesh hand out to Steve, who held out his own hand for the other to take. James began tapping on the palm of Steve’s hand. 

_ You can call me Bucky if you want.  _ A pause.  _ I'm sorry. _

“No, I won't call you Bucky if you don't want me to,” Steve offered. “I want you to feel safe.”

James absently rubbed his thumb on the side of Steve’s hand. 

_ I feel safe with you _ , he finally tapped out.  _ Call me Bucky. _

Steve choked on his emotions and gently curled his fingers inward, lightly scratching Bucky’s palm. 

“Okay, Buck,” Steve said. “Whatever you ask.”

Bucky snuck a smile at Steve and received one in kind.


End file.
